


do it for the thrill of the rush

by ursulamerkle



Category: Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), Spider-Man - All Media Types, Spider-Man: Far From Home (2019)
Genre: Fbi agent Peter Parker, Gun Violence, Gunplay, Gunshot Wounds, Kidnapping, M/M, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Serial Killer Quentin Beck, Serial Murder, Stockholm Syndrome, quentin beck is his own content warning, warning: This Gets Dark
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-05
Updated: 2020-10-03
Packaged: 2021-03-06 22:01:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26296093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ursulamerkle/pseuds/ursulamerkle
Summary: “Excuse me. Peter?”Peter looks up at the sound of his name.'Handsome' is the first thing he thinks. The man looks even better than his pictures, and his pictures were...“Quentin?” he asks, and the bearded man smiles.Peter can't believe he actually has to remind himself that the handsome face he’s staring down is one of New York’s most notorious serial killers.
Relationships: Quentin Beck/Peter Parker
Comments: 40
Kudos: 101





	1. do you think that he could be you?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> helloooooooo i am back with another fic!!!! as a warning this is gonna get.....Dark (i think) so proceed with caution ! title is from lana del ray's serial killer. we're nothing if not on the nose
> 
> cw guns/kidnapping/murder

7:08 PM.

The restaurant is dimly lit by warm golden light fixtures and soft candlelight, furnished with polished dark wooden decor and rich splashes of red on the walls and the tablecloths. Classical music drifts through the air, the gentle piano melodies an inviting accompaniment to the low murmur of its patrons, percussed with the scrapes of silverware and glasses clinking together cheerily. 

The booth they’ve reserved for Peter is curved, so he and his date could slide into the arch and sit close beside one another if they wished. Like something out of a romantic movie. If someone proposed here tonight, Peter wouldn’t be surprised. But he feels very small, sitting there by himself, trying not to look pathetic every time he glances at his watch.

7:09 PM. They _had_ said seven o’clock, hadn’t they?

He really hopes he doesn’t get stood up.

“Excuse me. Peter?”

Peter looks up at the sound of his name. Standing in front of him is a tall, broad, bearded man, his hands tucked in his pockets, in a black turtleneck and neatly pressed slacks. A nice blazer is draped over the crook of his arm.

_Handsome_ is the first thing he thinks. He looks even better than his pictures, and his pictures were...

“Quentin?” he asks, and the bearded man smiles.

“Sorry I’m late,” he apologizes, sliding into the booth across from Peter and running a hand through his hair, “traffic was shit.”

Peter smiles back sheepishly. “That’s okay. I haven’t been here long.”

“Which usually means _I’ve been here for thirty minutes and thought you stood me up.”_

Peter hesitates and Quentin chuckles, “how about a drink on me?”

Peter shakes his head. He can’t drink, not tonight. As much as several shots of tequila sound incredibly tempting right now. “No, thank you. I’m alright.”

“Are you sure?” He raises a dark eyebrow. “You look like you could use one.”

“Sorry. I just, um…” he averts his eyes, “I don’t do this a lot.”

“Do what?” he asks.

“Uh…” Quentin’s gaze is so intense Peter finds it hard to speak. “Y’know. Go on dates.”

The smirk that draws up Quentin’s lips is somehow disarming and discomfiting at the same time. He leans back in the booth and gives Peter a deliberate once-over, his eyes twinkling.

“Really? Someone as pretty as you?” he asks. “I find that hard to believe.”

Peter flushes red. Dating wasn’t really his thing. Online dating was even _less_ his thing. He managed to be more awkward chatting over text than he was in person, which was saying something. Besides, his job was too demanding and he didn’t have the time.

His roommate Ned, however, was insistent that he “get out there, man!” He’d cornered Peter in their apartment one night, after he came home from a particularly long and grueling day at work, sat him down and told him that he “needed to get laid, dude.” Making a Tinder profile had been his idea, citing something about it being less terrifying than Grindr and less depressing than eHarmony. 

“Ned, I don’t have time for that—”

“No, you don’t _make_ time,” Ned corrected him. “There’s a difference.”

He was right. Still, Peter had been incredibly reluctant, swiping through pictures with Ned hovering awkwardly over his shoulder. That is, until Peter saw Quentin.

“Holy shit,” Peter breathed. “It’s him.”

Peter couldn’t believe it. He was staring down an _exact replica_ of the composite sketch that had been haunting him for months. 

He’d heard the physical description enough times to recall it from memory as he scrolled through his photos in utter shock. 5’11” to 6 feet tall. 38 to 40 years old. Caucasian. Brown hair. Beard. Broad shoulders. Large blue eyes.

But was that enough to go off of? A _Tinder profile?_ Peter almost implodes with embarrassment just _thinking_ about what would happen if he walked into Mr. Stark’s office and showed him photos of some guy on a dating app. There was so much more to it than that. The psychological profile he had helped draft, for instance. He was likely a narcissist, a skillful emotional manipulator. He might suffer from antisocial personality disorder. He would be charismatic, someone who would have no difficulty luring his victims to him, before he drugged them and—

“Hell yeah, dude,” Ned said, clapping him on the shoulder, waking him from his thoughts. He was grinning ear-to-ear. “Get that D.”

Ned didn’t understand what Peter meant by _it’s him,_ and before Peter had a chance to object, Ned was reaching over and swiping right on Quentin Beck’s photo.

_“Ned!_ What the hell!—”

His phone buzzed in his hand. _It’s a match!_

Oh God. Oh God. Oh God.

And now, sitting across from him in the romantic glow of candlelight, Peter actually has to remind himself that the handsome face he’s staring down is one of New York’s most notorious serial killers.

“Well, I think I’m gonna have a drink,” Quentin muses, glancing at the bar and smoothing a hand over his well-groomed beard. “You can always change your mind.”

Peter watches as Quentin chats up their waitress. He’s charming with her, just like he had been over their few days of intermittent correspondence as they flirted (as _Quentin_ flirted, and Peter tried not to die of an anxiety attack) and planned their “date.” Peter learned Quentin was fond of good wine, expensive things, and, oddly enough, chemistry and engineering. Peter tried not to reveal too much about himself as they chatted, but it was something they had in common. More importantly, it was something Quentin had in common with the profile. Their killer was quite adept at manufacturing his own drugs.

Peter had taken Ned’s interference in stride. If he went on a date with him, maybe he could figure out if Quentin Beck was really the New York City Ripper. Profile him in real time, without him knowing. Besides, it didn’t hurt that Peter fit Quentin’s victim profile perfectly; young, attractive men, late teens to early twenties. It could work.

“So, Peter,” Quentin says, turning to him as the waitress heads off, “tell me about yourself.”

Showtime.

“I’m an biochem student, at Columbia,” Peter lies, hoping it sounds natural. Thank God he knows enough about biochemistry to back himself up. “With a minor in physics.”

Quentin looks impressed. “Wow.”

Peter half-laughs. “I guess?”

“Oh, come on,” Quentin drawls. He leans back in the booth, stretching his arms out to rest over the back. “Modesty is boring. You’re smart. You can brag here, I won’t tell anyone.”

He winks, and Peter should slap himself for how badly he wants to lean in, to chase Quentin. _Charming._ Quentin most definitely fits the profile for that, too. Most narcissists would.

“Okay, sure, I’m smart,” Peter admits, lackluster. “Happy?”

Quentin grins. Wide, attractive. Like a shark. “Very.”

Their waitress circles back with Quentin’s drink, a glass of red wine. Money was clearly no object to him, he’d ordered a glass of their most expensive merlot. They hadn’t looked at the menus yet, so they take a second to do that before ordering, handing off their menus to the waitress, the table now bare.

“What about you?” Peter asks, as Quentin takes a sip. “What do you do?”

“I am a psychiatrist,” Quentin says proudly, setting down his drink. His fingers rest on the stem of the glass, tracing it absentmindedly. “And a private therapist.”

_Duh._ That tracks. Narcissists love nothing more than feeling important, feeling in control. Additionally, the ruse of helping others makes him look great, at least on paper. But Peter knows him. It’s all pretend. Could that be how he lured his victims, too? Using the guise of a trustworthy professional? Maybe he didn’t like to mix work and pleasure. Compartmentalizing to keep his real life and his fantasy separate.

“Oh, wow. Cool.” Peter sits up. “Do you like it?”

“It’s alright,” Quentin shrugs. “I enjoy it, most of the time. Sometimes you get some real wackos, but that’s par for the course.” He fixes Peter with a dark, pointed look over the rim of his wine glass. “You know what I mean.”

Peter’s hair stands up on the back of his neck. What? What did he mean by that? Peter’s heart skips, his stomach fluttering uncomfortably.

“I’ve never been,” he blurts awkwardly. “To therapy, I mean.”

Not entirely true. He had to undergo _several_ psychiatric evaluations to work in the FBI, especially as young as he was. The Bureau took a _lot_ of risks pulling Peter out of his first year of college to work for them, and they couldn’t screw that up gambling on someone who might prove to be unstable. And he’d been to therapy, a year ago, a few times after a close call in the field.

Peter expects Quentin to say something like _you should try it, it’s very helpful, outside perspective can be insightful._ But instead, he chuckles and says:

“Forgive me if I’m being too forward, but I’d _love_ to psychoanalyze you,” he smirks. “Among other things.”

For the first time, Peter thinks that maybe this was a bad idea.

“But that’s more of a third date activity, hm?” Quentin jokes, suddenly switching gears with a laid-back grin. “How are you liking school?”

“Oh, it’s—it’s great, yeah,” he stammers, caught slightly off-guard. “It’s awesome.”

Quentin is silent for a moment. Swirls his drink. Then smiles.

“You know, you’re adorable when you lie.”

A spike of ice stabs Peter’s heart. He laughs nervously, maybe sounding more nervous because he’s trying _not_ to sound nervous. “What?”

“I mean, really, absolutely precious,” he continues. “But you can drop the act now. I’d like to get to know the real Peter Parker.”

Peter frowns as innocently as he can, but his heart rate is starting to climb uneasily. “What...I don’t know what you mean.”

“Don’t play dumb, sweetheart,” Quentin chastens him. “Or, sorry, should I call you Agent Parker?”

His stomach drops into the floor. Peter tries to school his expression, so Quentin doesn’t see the flicker of fear that crosses his face.

“You look surprised,” he observes, tilting his head. “All it took was a quick Google search. You’re very easy to find.”

His mouth is incredibly dry. His pulse is racing. “I have no clue what you’re talking about—”

A click under the table makes Peter freeze. The unmistakable click of a gun being cocked.

Quentin smiles, frighteningly cold. “Lie to me one more time and see what happens.”

Peter’s cover is blown. Even worse, he has no backup— _no one even knows where he is_. And now, he’s being held at gunpoint in the middle of a crowded restaurant. 

He’s fucking screwed.

“So, Agent Parker, why are you here?” Quentin asks, as nonchalantly as one would ask about the weather.

“If you know so much about me, you should already know,” Peter retorts quietly.

Quentin leans his free elbow on the table, probably to further conceal the gun from view. Peter’s never been angrier at a tablecloth. “I’m giving you a chance to tell me the truth yourself,” he explains, then shrugs. “I’m generous like that.”

Classic narcissistic traits. Self-aggrandizing, posturing himself as good and _generous_ even while he’s got a gun trained on Peter, just out of sight. Knowing he has the upper hand on Peter, his perfect victim, but also that he has the upper hand on an FBI agent, someone who should have the upper hand on _him_...he must feel invincible. Peter files this away. That he’s still able to analyze behavior and assess a situation rationally sets him somewhat at ease.

Quentin taps the gun against Peter’s knee, earning a startled inhale from him. “I’m waiting.”

“I know who you are, _Beck,”_ Peter says firmly. He shifts his knee away. “That’s why I’m here.”

Peter doesn’t tell him that no one knows he’s here, that he didn’t bother calling in backup because he’d been _so sure_ that this would work. Stupid. Stupid. _Stupid._ He also doesn’t tell Quentin that they have nothing on him beyond a likeness to a composite. That Peter is working purely from a hunch, from that little twinge in his gut telling him _this is the guy. It’s him._

“See? That wasn’t so hard,” Quentin grins, almost affectionately. “I guess we’re even.”

“You wanna put the gun away?” Peter suggests, trying to make it sound like it’s Quentin’s idea. “So we can talk?”

Quentin seems to consider this. “I would, but…”

_Fuck._

“I can’t exactly let you go, can I?” Quentin grimaces, like this is hard for him to say. “You know who I am. My...hobbies.”

If by _hobbies_ he means kidnapping young men like Peter, drugging them, and ripping them apart in his basement, then yeah, Peter is well aware. But Peter might be in deeper than he thought. It takes a certain kind of insanity to refer to serial murder as a _hobby._

But Peter keeps his mouth shut, drawn in a thin line. He simply nods.

Quentin slides over, around the bend of the booth, and wraps his arm around Peter’s shoulder. Anyone watching them would see a couple getting cozy, but if they paid closer attention they would see the way Peter’s breath hitches, the possessive squeeze of Quentin’s hand. The gun under the table.

The gun touches his knee, and this time, it’s not a tap. It slides up the inside of his leg, and Peter shivers against Quentin’s side at the feeling of the muzzle on his thigh.

“You’ve put yourself in quite a tight spot, baby.” His voice is low and threatening in Peter’s ear. “I have no intention of getting arrested tonight. Lucky for me,” he prods the gun into Peter’s inner thigh, watching Peter as he gasps sharply, then whispers, “you’re _exactly_ my type. But you knew that, didn’t you?”

He swallows. Nods again, tense. Quentin lets up the pressure on the gun digging into his flesh and drags it down his thigh.

“I have a thing for pretty boys,” he purrs. Peter’s thigh is quivering under the gun. “You just might be the prettiest I’ve ever had.”

He has a gun. It’s tucked into the waistband of his pants, sort of digging into his lower spine, but if he can get to it—

“Now, you’re gonna reach behind you and hand me that gun I know you’re packing,” Quentin tells him, and Peter’s heart sinks. “And if you try to shoot, I’ll _fucking_ kill you.”

As Quentin unwraps his arm from his shoulder, Peter slowly reaches behind him and withdraws his weapon from his waistband. He could still shoot, he could still try it—

But he doesn’t. There are too many lives at risk; no one in this restaurant deserves to die, and Quentin is insane. The possibility of him going on a total shooting spree once Peter is taken care of is too high. It’s just not safe.

Discreetly, Peter sets the gun in Quentin’s waiting hand. He kisses him on the cheek.

“Thanks, sweetheart.”

Peter flinches.

“Now,” Quentin says, surreptitiously tucking Peter’s gun into his own waistband, “I’m gonna ask for the check and we’re going to walk out of here together. And you’re _not_ gonna cause a scene, because I have one more gun than I did before and absolutely _nothing_ to lose.” He shrugs. “Except my new toy.”

Quentin gestures for their server with an endearing smile when she passes by them, his gun still trained on Peter’s kneecap under the table. Peter’s face is surely white as a sheet, but he tries his best to look calm. 

When she brings it to them, she gives Peter a worried look.

“Everything alright, I hope?” she asks.

Peter nods quickly, and Quentin laughs amiably. “He’s not feeling well. Could we get the check?”

Peter winces when he feels the pressure of the gun let up. He _almost_ relaxes, until he realizes Quentin must be pointing it at the waitress. Shifting the threat so Peter never gets too comfortable. Frantic, he tries to play up his faux-illness.

“Can we please just go home?” he asks Quentin desperately, his voice shaky. “I just—I need to lay down.”

Their waitress smiles pityingly. “I’m sorry you don’t feel well. Let me go grab it so you can get out of here.”

She walks away, and Peter slumps over with relief.

“Aren’t you just the sweetest,” he coos in Peter’s ear. “A real hero.”

“Don’t hurt anyone,” Peter begs under his breath. “I’ll go with you, just _please.”_

Quentin clicks his tongue. “Well, when you ask so nicely.”

Peter’s still collapsed on the table when the waitress brings them the check. Quentin runs a heavy hand up and down his back, thanking her and telling her to “keep the change” as he tucks a crisp hundred inside.

“Come on,” Quentin slides back around the table to grab his blazer and stands, offering Peter what looks like a gentlemanly hand. Peter knows better, knows the gun is still pointed at him in the hand now covered by his jacket, but he takes it anyway. “Let’s go home.”

Home?

Shit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "ned supremacy" -pipi
> 
> <333333 thank u for reading !!!! stick around for the not so good times. sorry peter
> 
> im on twitter @ursulamerkles.....kind of


	2. i know what i do isn't right

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You’re not gonna shoot me,” Peter spits at him, eyes blazing.
> 
> Quentin doesn’t like being told what to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hellooooooo friends have a chapter 2 POV switch ! all my love goes to actual ao3 angel piagnucolare who always reads my shit and gasses me up before i post. everyone deserves a pipi in their life
> 
> tw!!!!! gun violence, wounds, drugging

Quentin Beck knows from experience never to get too comfortable. That’s how mistakes get made. 

He’s always thoroughly careful, bordering on neurotic. Even so, there’s a sense of confidence that comes from routine, an unshakeable sense of invincibility. Like no matter what he does, he’ll never be caught. He takes great care to be gone in the shadows long before anyone even realizes his latest cold body is missing. 

He thrives off of patterns and rituals. The cautious, compulsive attention to detail, the circumspect precision of clean-up and disposal. It’s calming to him. Having something to focus on is a nice way to come down after the high of a kill. He’s been doing this for so long now it’s become second nature.

But tonight is entirely different.

He’s never been on edge before the way he’d been with Peter—not just when picking up victims, but maybe in his entire life. It’s almost _erotic_ . It’s a clever ruse Peter’s designed, luring Quentin here under the pretense of a romantic evening. It’s a move right out of Quentin’s playbook. Peter is smart, perceptive. But Quentin is smarter, and this is _his_ territory; familiar, well-tread, intimately known.

Yet at the same time, it’s entirely new. Quentin has a habit of going for low-hanging fruit, easy targets that no one will miss. Peter, however, seems like the type to show up ten minutes early to his own funeral. If he misses a day of work, it’ll be suspect. More than that, he could have planted undercover agents all over the restaurant, or pressed a button the second Quentin walked in and had the building surrounded. That intoxicating sting between them only pricks harder when Quentin thinks about how at any moment, the penny could drop, and it would all be over. Even if he had an _ounce_ of impulse control, he wouldn’t be able to resist the risk. Peter waltzed so willingly into his trap, it’d be a crime _not_ to take him home.

As per usual, he emerges victorious. All Peter’s years of training couldn’t prepare him for Quentin Beck.

The walk out of the restaurant is the longest and proudest twenty feet of his life. Peter is tucked against him, Quentin’s arm wrapped tight around his waist, fingers squeezing fierce bruises into his side. Set firmly in his hand is the gun, hidden beneath the fabric of his blazer, index finger brushing the side of the trigger. He’s acutely alert to every breath Peter takes, still half-expecting to be tackled to the ground by a pack of plain clothes FBI agents as he walks out (not unlike the feeling of walking through the doors of a shop with stolen goods hidden in your pockets, waiting for the loud blare of an alarm to signal your crime).

But nothing happens. No one stops him. Not even Peter.

When they get to his car, Quentin feels Peter’s ribs swelling faster, his breath quickening. He must be expecting Quentin to tase him and toss him into his trunk, handcuff him and gag him, hit him over the head with a bat or something. Quentin, obviously, is no idiot. How brain-dead would he have to be to kidnap someone in plain sight like that? And besides, he’s a gentleman. When he wants to be.

He walks Peter to the passenger side, opens the door for him, and guides him in by the small of his back.

“I’m not locking the door behind you,” he says, leaning on the roof of the car. “Consider it a gesture of goodwill.”

It’s an empty gesture. Quentin had deliberately removed the inside door handle from the passenger side of his car long ago, that way he could focus on the road without worrying about his cargo jumping out of the car while they were at a stoplight.

Quentin slips into the driver’s side and locks the doors anyway. Before he starts the car, he reaches across the center console for the glove compartment—a move that has Peter pressing his shoulder against the door, his chest hitching with panic.

“Relax, baby,” Quentin says with a sly smile, taking out a black silk scarf. “Put this on.”

Peter’s hands shake as he takes the blindfold, careful not to touch him, and puts it on. Quentin watches vigilantly to make sure he ties it tight enough. Making him wear a blindfold is completely trivial if Peter can see where they’re going. He fastens it securely enough for Quentin’s liking, but his chin tilts up almost imperceptibly, and Quentin’s jaw twitches in irritation as he realizes Peter is trying to angle it so he can peek underneath.

“Uh-uh.”

He grabs a fistful of Peter’s hair and he cries out as he’s wrenched down, til his cheek is pressed into Quentin’s thigh.

“You really think I’m gonna fall for that?” he grits through his teeth as he yanks the knot on the blindfold _tight._ Peter gasps and scrabbles for purchase on Quentin’s thigh, trying to push himself up, but Quentin grabs another handful of his hair and forces him back down. “You’re smarter than that, Peter.”

“I’m sorry!” he chokes out, clinging to Quentin’s pant leg. “I’m sorry, I won’t do it again, _please.”_

Peter is lucky Quentin’s such a pushover. 

He sighs, and his grip lets up.

“You look so pretty like this,” he muses, petting Peter’s tousled hair with striking gentleness as he pants against his thigh, “all helpless and begging with your head in my lap.”

Quentin could make Peter blow him right now, anchor his hand in that soft hair and choke him on his cock til he cries...

_Time and place,_ he reminds himself.

Quentin pats his cheek. “You can sit up now.”

Shakily, he pushes himself up. Quentin’s surprised he’s been so compliant, aside from the blindfold misstep. Peter _is_ brave enough to stand up to him, though defiance has little to do with bravery. Defiance requires hope.

Ah. Peter doesn’t think he’s getting out of here.

“Where are all your cop friends?” Quentin asks, only a little mockingly. “I really wouldn’t have been hurt if you’d invited them. The more the merrier.”

Way to kick him while he’s down. The kid is clearly upset with himself for not bringing backup, and rightly so, because this could all have been avoided if Peter hadn’t come alone. His shoulders tremble, and Quentin _really_ wishes he didn’t have to make him wear the blindfold so he could see him crying.

Peter jumps as Quentin reaches out and strokes a finger over his cheek.

“Too bad they’ll never know you’re in good hands,” he hums. “Give me your phone.”

Peter digs it out of his pocket and hands it over. Quentin turns it off so no one can track his location. Little by little, Peter Parker is disappearing.

The engine turns over, smooth, and they’re off.

Quentin loves the drive out of the city. It’s relaxing, the gradual fade of noise and bright lights as the city skyline sinks away and the quiet suburbs swallow him whole. He has an office in the city where he practices and sees patients, but he’s not cut out to live in the city. The apartments are too small and the walls are too thin for him to freely engage in his recreation of choice. So it’s Upper Montclair, thirty minutes and a spectacular school district from the city, where he makes his home.

The familiar rock of the car as they pull into his driveway sends a spiraling thrill up Quentin’s spine. He presses the garage button on the roof of his car as he pulls in, shutting off the engine with a jingle of keys as the garage door grates to a close behind them. Everything is still and hushed now; no cars, no sirens, no stoop chatter or people fighting or laughter riding on the breeze.

“You can take it off now.”

Peter reaches up with tentative hands and slips off the scarf. His eyes are rimmed with red, his cheeks flushed. He doesn’t look at Quentin. Too ashamed. He’d expected Peter to be more of a fighter, honestly. Not that he’s complaining.

Quentin gets out of the car, pulls on his blazer, and locks the door behind him, just in case. Peter sits there, waiting patiently for Quentin to open the door and usher him out of the car.

Quentin has two guns, and he doesn’t even have to threaten to use _one_ as he leads Peter into the house. He just lets Quentin walk him inside, guiding him by the waist, his chin held defiantly high despite the drying tear tracks on his face.

“I’d give you the tour,” Quentin says, flipping on a light switch as they walk into his kitchen, “but you won’t be up here much.”

“It’s nice,” Peter says, so quietly that Quentin almost doesn’t hear him.

It _is_ nice. Quentin doesn’t consider himself an interior designer by any means, but it’s easy to decorate a house when you have good taste. His set-up is lofty and spacious, but _not_ minimalist. He hates minimalism. He loves things too much.

And this. _This_ is exactly why Quentin never gets comfortable.

Because as they pass through the kitchen, Peter’s arm shoots out and grabs a knife from the wooden block on the counter, wheeling around on Quentin and narrowly missing his stomach as he slashes it towards him. Peter has the advantage of getting the jump on him, but Quentin is a quick draw, and angry enough to pistol whip Peter across the face, sending him spinning around and crashing to the floor with a loud yelp.

“That was a _really bad idea,_ Peter,” Quentin growls, rage burning through him fast and hot. Half at Peter, for _daring_ to disobey him, half at himself for being dumb enough to think Peter wouldn’t try something the second he got the chance.

He had waited til they got home for a reason. He needed a weapon. Peter wasn’t just going for an escape; he was going to kill Quentin. Self-defense is perfectly excusable in court when you’ve been kidnapped.

_Note to self,_ Quentin thinks, _keep him away from sharp objects._

Peter scrambles backwards, panting and bleeding from his temple where Quentin struck him. The knife had clattered to the floor in his fall, and Quentin kicks it behind him as he advances on him, gun drawn.

“You’re not gonna shoot me,” Peter spits at him, eyes blazing.

Quentin doesn’t like being told what to do.

A scream tears out of Peter’s throat when the bullet pierces his shoulder. Quentin’s ears ring from the gunshot, echoing distantly with Peter’s pained and panicked sobs _._ A bloody flower blooms on his white shirt. That’ll teach him to shut up. 

Ugh. Quentin didn’t _want_ to shoot him; he hadn’t _planned_ for this and it’s an unnecessary mess for him to have to clean up. Peter’s bleeding all over his fucking tile, and now he has to figure out how to explain away a gunshot and a blood-curdling scream to his goddamn neighbors. And Peter’s bleeding all over his _fucking tile._

He’s trying hard not to lose it, but fuck _,_ he’s annoyed. Gun still in hand, Quentin reaches down and grabs Peter by the front of his bloodied shirt and yanks him up off the floor. Peter wails in pain, grabbing at his shoulder with one hand and gripping Quentin’s wrist with the other, leveraging himself and still trying to break free as Quentin drags him further into the house.

“Stop—Beck, _stop,_ please—”

He grabs Quentin’s lapel in his fists, managing to pull himself fully upright one last time, before his pleading sobs die in his throat and he faints with a soft exhale, body going limp in Quentin’s arms.

Jesus. Fucking. Christ. 

Good timing. Quentin would’ve hated having to wrestle him down a flight of stairs. That’s ended...poorly for him before. Quentin grunts as he bends down and hooks an arm underneath Peter’s buckling knees, lifting his unconscious, bleeding body bridal-style to carry him to the basement.

It’s not any easier to carry a dead weight down a flight of stairs, but Quentin’s done it plenty of times before, and Peter’s not that heavy. But he’s also trying not to get Peter’s blood all over his nice clothes, and he’s fighting the clock; he needs to get Peter down there and clean up his goddamn bullet wound before he bleeds out.

If Peter dies tonight, Quentin will go fucking apoplectic _._

He lays Peter out on the bed—fuck, he’ll just get a new mattress, it’s fine!—and tries to compose himself as he angrily retrieves the first aid kit from upstairs. He nearly slips on the bloody tile, swearing loudly and slamming the cabinet closed as he storms back downstairs.

This is the work he usually enjoys, cleaning up and running damage control, but he’s too angry to relax into it. He cuts Peter’s shirt off and gets to work, dousing the wound with rubbing alcohol and applying pressure with a towel before flipping him over and repeating the same steps on the exit wound. It’d be better to keep Peter on his side, but Quentin can’t work like that, so this will have to do. Peter’s shoulder will be an absolute nightmare once he wakes up, but for now, he’s blissfully asleep and pain-free.

“You’re fucking welcome,” he grumbles, pouring disinfectant over the exit wound and mopping up his blood once more before going into his kit for stitches.

Stitches are a bitch to manage under normal circumstances, but when you’re boiling with rage? Fucking impossible. By the time Quentin finishes off the last stitch to the entry wound, with a snip of the scissors and a loud groan, he nearly collapses. He still has to bandage it, tend to the injury on Peter’s temple, and clean up the bloody mess upstairs, but at least Peter didn’t bleed out on him.

Quentin checks his pulse. It flutters against his fingers, weak, but there. His lips are parted, his chest rising and falling gently. He’s beautiful like this, peaceful and quiet and totally dependent on Quentin. Peter’s life is in his hands. 

Quentin touches his lower lip, his jaw, splays his fingers across the curve of Peter’s throat.

Later. Right now, he has a crime scene to clean up.

* * *

Four long hours later, Quentin’s kitchen floor is spotless. He scrubbed Peter’s blood out of his tile, tossed his own clothes in the wash, and did the dishes to wipe Peter’s prints from the knife. He lit a candle to rid the air of the acrid smell of bleach, then poured himself a glass of Johnnie Walker Blue. He’d earned it.

He brings it with him downstairs to check on Peter.

He’s still lying on the bed, unconscious. He would’ve woken up long ago if Quentin hadn’t injected him with a home-brewed tranquilizer to give himself a little time. The bandages on his shoulder aren’t soaked through with blood, that’s good, the stitches have held up. His hair is a wild mess on his head, curly and sticking to his forehead with sweat. He’s likely overheating from the unfamiliar substance in his system; not an uncommon side effect. Quentin considers getting him a cold towel to help him cool off, but as he turns to head back up the stairs, Peter starts to stir, his heavy eyelids fluttering weakly.

“Wha…” he slurs, his voice soft and delirious. “Beck?”

Quentin smiles. “Hi, Peter.”

Peter’s head sort of lolls over at the sound of his name, his face screwed up in confusion. Quentin is hidden in the dark of the stairwell, just out of the light, a handsome voyeur to Peter’s delirium. He leans on the railing, watching Peter from the shadows.

“What...what did you give me,” Peter asks thickly, his words sticking up his mouth. It’s cute, watching such a smart boy labor to get out the simplest sentence.

“Just a little anesthesia,” Quentin lies. “You should be feeling just fine in a few hours. If I don’t decide to dose you again, that is.”

“Don’t.”

Quentin sighs. Again, with the bossing him around. Does Peter not understand he doesn’t get a say?

Peter tries to push himself up on his elbows, but when he shifts his left shoulder he cries out in pain, falling back against the bed and curling around himself.

“Yeah, I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Quentin tells him unsympathetically. “Your left arm is gonna be out of commission for at least a couple weeks.”

“You shot me,” Peter mumbles, like he’d just remembered.

“And now you know I _will_ ,” Quentin challenges him. “So don’t try that again.”

In all honesty, Quentin doesn’t want to have to shoot him again. He’ll be no fun to play with if he’s just riddled with bullet holes. Plus, it was a _huge_ pain in the ass to clean up.

“I need to change your bandages,” Quentin states, crossing the room, first aid kit in hand. Peter isn’t restrained, but it’s not like he could do anything even if he wanted to. He’s too drugged up. He tries to wriggle away from Quentin as he sits on the edge of the bed, but Quentin grips his left arm, stilling him with a soft whimper of discomfort.

“Stay still, or I can make this _very_ painful for you.”

Peter nods.

Quentin gently peels away the bandage on Peter’s front, analyzing the stitched up wound. It doesn’t look awful. It’s not professional, but it’s not infected or bleeding and that’s all Quentin cares about.

He pours some rubbing alcohol onto a rag, and Peter whimpers and squeezes his eyes shut when Quentin presses it, cold and stinging, to his skin.

“I know, hon,” he murmurs, Peter’s chest pitching with deep breaths under his hand, “I know.”

Quentin slathers some Vaseline on his injury, watching Peter bite his lip uncomfortably, then applies a new gauze patch over it. He’s already lying on his side, so Quentin has access to the back of his shoulder, easier this time now that he’s somewhat conscious.

“I can give you some Aspirin, for the pain,” Quentin says softly, “I’m going to take care of you, okay?”

When he finishes covering the exit wound, Quentin carefully tilts Peter’s chin up to get a better look at the small wound on his forehead. He wipes away the dried blood to reveal a dark bruise blooming underneath. He admires it, fantasizing morbidly of Peter’s smooth skin mottled with bruises all over, stroking a hand over his cheek tenderly.

Peter’s tired eyes slowly blink up at him.

“Thank you,” he whispers.

Well, that was unexpected.

Things had, admittedly, not gotten off to the start Quentin had hoped. He has a ritual. A calculated procedure. Right now, Peter should be in isolation, tied down and hallucinating violently until he can’t tell what’s real and what’s all in his head. Having to take care of Peter was, Quentin thought, a terrible wrench in his plans. But maybe he’d been wrong.

While Peter’s eyes are closed, Quentin slips back into the first aid kit, pulling out a cloth soaked in a little elixir of his own making. Peter could use another dose, but Quentin will take care of that once he’s out. That way, he’ll wake up in the morning in the middle of a delusional episode, confused and completely alone.

“You wanna go to sleep, sweetheart?” Quentin asks quietly. Peter’s eyes are half-lidded. He’s already nearly there, Quentin’s just going to help him along.

He brushes a hand over his cheek once more, and Peter doesn’t even notice as the cloth closes over his mouth.

He breathes it in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "not gonna lie peter parker was in fact genetically engineered to be manhandled" -pipi
> 
> my finger slipped and i shot him. also hey ty for all the nice comments!!! it makes me feel so validated that i am not the only one weirdly fixated on the idea of big bad evil serial killer man beck
> 
> i'm barely on twitter but i AM on twitter @ursulamerkles love u


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